


bits and pieces

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Cutting, Gang Rape, Graphic Description, Hurt Stiles, Knifeplay, M/M, OOC for Theo, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles get dragged out to the woods by the violent man who has always hated him and his gang. </p><p>“It always had to be you Stiles,” Theo whispered right into Stiles’ ear. “Since the day I came back and saw you, I knew.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> This story starts very very abruptly because it was originally part of something bigger. The "bigger" something explains the setting better and why Theo isn't a were. Also Theo's gang isn't the chimera pack.

They dragged him over to the stone table where they threw him down on his back. A few of them held him down while Theo drew out his knife. Theo climbed on top of him sitting on his hips and leaned down holding the knife a few inches above Stiles' face.

“Let's make you squirm,” Theo hissed, his eyes bright as a snake's. Stiles was terrified but refused to cry or scream. It wouldn't help him. Theo cut off Stiles' shirt first. Then slowly drew his knife across Stiles' skin.

The others watched mesmerized as Theo's long slice got deeper and blood welled up. Stiles arched his back in pain clenching his jaw and hissing in pain. Theo seemed to know exactly how deep he could cut without killing Stiles or causing him to bleed to death. It was agony. Stiles just wanted it to stop. By the second cut Stiles was screaming. One of them must have thought the screaming was too loud because he roughly clamped a hand over Stiles' mouth.

“Let's fuck him now, Theo,” The big one said eagerly. Stiles thought they might plan on raping him, but hearing it cut deeper than Theo's knife. He wished they'd just kill him right now. He'd do anything to be not here.

“I'm not finished,” Theo replied harshly, slicing Stiles especially brutally across the abdomen. “Flip him over,” Theo commanded. The hand was removed from his face when they flipped him over. For a second he hoped he might black out as pain from the lacerations on his chest seared up like the cold stone had set them on fire. They cut off the rest of his shirt. Then took off his pants.

Stiles realized he was crying, he didn't know when he'd started. Theo sat down on him again and began making long slices on his back now. This time when Stiles screamed, nobody stopped him. He could feel blood trickle down his back on the already bloody stone. Then Theo stopped. He leaned forward, practically laying across Stiles and Stiles could feel his hot breath on the back of his neck.

“It always had to be you Stiles,” Theo whispered right into Stiles’ ear. “Since the day I came back and saw you, I knew.” Stiles closed his eyes trying to forget every second of what was happening.

Theo sat up leaving Stiles' field of vision and dragged his knife down Stiles' back one more time. Then suddenly his presence was gone. Hands still held him down on the stone. 

“Have at him,” Stiles heard Theo say. 

More hands were on him then. One hand traced the many lacerations on his back, and more than one forced his legs apart. 

“Me first,” It was the big one speaking. Stiles could hear him right behind him. A choked gasp escaped his lips as someone dug their fingers into one of the deepest cuts on his back, ripping and scratching at the flesh, before moving them down to Stiles' rear. 

“No, please don’t,” Stiles sobbed clenching his jaw tightly and closing his eyes. Stiles screamed when fingers, wet with his own blood, were jammed inside him. It hurt more than the knife. The fingers viciously dug in, scratching, scissoring and opening him up. More blood began flowing down Stiles' thighs. Then they were pulled out which hurt almost just as much. 

The sound of a belt being undone was followed the two large strong hands grabbing Stiles' hips like a vise and pulling him back where only the top half of his body was draped over the table-like stone. Stiles felt sick as he felt a hard dick press up against him. This time he didn’t beg. 

Stiles couldn’t even scream. The large hands pulled back hard on Stiles' hips as he brutally thrust into Stiles, burying himself completely. Pain and disgust enveloped Stiles and everything left him all at once, all his hopes, his laughs, everything that made him, was ripped away and the pain was too much too bare. He was nobody, nothing. Time then moved on after that instant but Stiles wasn't really there. The man set a savage pace, quick and rough as he could, maybe trying to prove something to his friends. Stiles could hear himself screaming over the thwack of flesh on flesh. If you could call it screaming. It was so pained and pathetic it sounded more like crying.

“Come on man, don’t fuck him to death. We want our turn.” There was more talking but Stiles didn’t hear anymore. Blood had smoothed his entrance, so the man was taking an even quicker pace. Stiles already felt dead. He knew he really would be soon. Labored breathing and moans sounded above him and the hand on his hips tightened even more. Then it stopped. But there was no relief for Stiles. Everything hurt too much and he could feel the man's dick spasming inside of him releasing cum to mix with all the blood. 

That was the worst. The ones after were bad and Stiles didn’t count how many -- but the first was the worst. One of them, while fucking Stiles, ran his nails up and down Stiles' back ripping up his cuts. Another flipped him over, pulled up his knees and fucked him, all the while forcing him to keep his eyes open. At one point someone had fucked him in his mouth. 

Stiles didn’t realize it was over until he found himself lying on the floor by himself. He vaguely remembered them leaving. They were jeering and laughing and quite a few had given him departing kicks but he couldn’t remember what they had said. 

The bastards didn’t even have the decency to kill him. They just left him to freeze to death when night came or die of blood loss, whichever came first. The sky was already dark and Stiles watched as the light in the sky approached twilight. 

It definitely wasn’t the will to live, or hope or strength that made Stiles stand. It wasn’t even fear of dying alone on the ground. Stiles didn’t know what made him stand up or even how he was able to stand.

Stiles held on the the side of the stone walls and shuffled forward. Blood made a trail behind him. He kept going because the alternative was to lie there and remember. While he was moving that was all he could think about. 

Finally, Stiles collapsed, asphalt digging into the wounds on his back. He didn’t know it, but he made it to the road. The world spun, the dark trees rising up and turning into a kaleidoscope. 

“Stiles!” Someone was leaning over him. Hands reached down and Stiles thought to himself that they had come back and his hell wasn’t over. But the hands just wrapped in him something warm and soft, a coat. 

“Stiles! What happened, who did this?” A face swam in front of him. Stiles didn’t know if he recognized it.

“What happened, who did this?” The voice belonging to the face repeated. 

“I don’t know. I don’t remember,” Stiles told the truth. 


	2. Outro

Stiles' eyelids fluttered open and for a moment everything was peaceful. Sounds of morning and a fresh wind was caressing his face. A moment later that peace was shattered.

First came the pain and second the memories. Stiles gasped, tears immediately springing to his eyes as it all washed over him in one fell blow. 

He looked around finding himself alone on a nice hospital bed in a private room. The window was open and outside spring bloomed in full force practically glowing in the sunlight. 

Stiles pushed himself up to a sitting position. Pain shot through every nerve in his body and his vision went red. Truthfully, he was past caring about the pain. He almost welcomed it. It was like a white hot balm to hide in. 

Bandages were wrapped around his torso like a mummy. 

Shakily, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He had to leave. He couldn't stay for one god damned second longer. 

A metal poll on wheel held a buch of medical bags with tubes connecting to his forearm. Stiles grabbed it and used it the help himself stand. He groaned, breathing heavy and doing his best to work through the pain

It wasn't until he had taken a step that he realized he had nowhere to go. Nowhere except the wondering around the hospital halls. Instead of sitting back down on the bed, something that'd be too painful the contemplate, Stiles left himself fall to his knees on the linoleum floor. His body shook from weakness. 

The air was thick and hot, pressing down his shoulders like it might crush him. His blood was pounding in his head. His vision blurred and his ears were ringing. 

Slowly, Stiles raised his head. The hospital was so quiet. Stiles began to wonder if he was awake at all. Maybe he was dreaming... or dead. 

Stiles staggered back to his feet, leaning heavily on the makeshift walking cane. Even if he didn't have anywhere to go it didn't mean he had to stay there. 

The door wasn’t locked, Stiles cracked it open and saw a nurse padding down the hall. Stiles waited for him to disappear then continued on, heading towards the closest exit sign. Then he got to the stairwell.

Clutching the railing like a lifeline Stiles begin descending. Stiles stumbled and nearly fell. It look him several times before he managed to keep going. It got worse the further he went. He felt blood start to soak through his bandages. 

Next time he did fall. Stiles drew himself up to his knees and didn't try to get up. The world around him faded away and all that was left was pain, but he didn't blackout. He sat there thinking. Not his memories, not his life, or the bits and pieces left of it, just thinking.

He never heard the cries of the people looking for him. Then someone was trying to talk to him. They kept saying his name but Stiles ignored them. 

Then someone was touching him. 

"No! Get off!" Stiles heard himself scream. The sound was deafening. But the figure backed off quickly. 

A man was there. Someone he should've recognized, and others too. He was surround. The man was talking to him holding his hands out peacefully but all Stiles could think about was being surrounded. He felt fear rise up in his chest like a great beast. 

Then suddenly from the other side someone grabbed him. He screamed and fought against the strong arms lifting him. He scratched and hit, and screamed in pain, fear and anger. But he was lifted up and was being carried. Finally, the pain and the blackness enveloped him. He went limp and knew no more. 

***

Voices arguing woke Stiles. This time there was no moment of peace. He could immediately feel every throbbing ache and pain in his body. He quickly put up a shield to keep the tide of memories from rushing over him and crushing him. 

Slowly he opened his eyes and and blinked up at the swirling pattern of the white ceiling above him. It was in shadow except the glint of a lamp in the corning dancing on the ridges of the swirls. 

The noises were coming from right outside his rooms By now he could make out what the voices were actually annunciated.

“Why was the door unlocked?” One asked grumpily. 

“It’s not routine to lock our patients in during the day,” a calm soothing voice replied.

“Even if the patient has had a recent incident like Stiles,” the first voice chided, “All I know, is I come to visit my son, and I find him bleeding in a stairwell where he could have very easily broken his neck.” 

“Stiles tends to wake up in states of confusion,” the second, calmer voice begins, “Usually not knowing where he is. For him it’s always the first time he’s woken up since he was found on the road. Today he woke and wandered out of the caring wing. He was only gone from his room for a maximum of ten minutes.”

None of this was really making sense to Stiles. Anything that did make sense he wanted to ignore. Thier conversation faded as the pressure of a throbbing headache attacked him. He didn’t know how long had passed before the voiced drifted back into coherent words in his conscious mind. 

“Why doesn’t he talk to me? He looked straight at me today, and he was afraid,” The second gruff voice asked.

“He doesn’t seem to remember much before he was attacked, especially people.”

“Like me.”

“Yes, but I am optimistic that he’ll regain his memories and reconnect with reality here.”

“But you don’t know.” 

“No, nothing is certain, but time can heal many wounds of the body and the mind.”

“I prey to God it’s sooner rather than later,” the second voiced signed. A realization hit Stiles like a tidal wave. He recognized that voice. It was his father. Relief flooded through him. He wasn’t alone. 


End file.
